


Wake Me Up

by rook_fern



Category: Forever (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adam is a little shit, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jo is dead sorreh, M/M, Maybe some Henry Morgan/Molly Hooper, Moriarty is Dead (or is he????), No Mary, Past Torture, Post-Season/Series 03, RIP Forever, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Torture in later chapters, You should watch Forever, possible PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rook_fern/pseuds/rook_fern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jo's tragic and sudden death, a guilt-ridden Henry returns to London to work at--where else?-- St. Barts. Sherlock is less-than-thrilled at the doctor who is uncannily like him, and maybe a little more. The consulting detective is desperate to discover what secrets the new medical examiner is hiding while also solving an unsolvable case and keeping his feelings for John quiet. Oh, and Adam is back and out for Henry's blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I recommend the television series Forever to you! It only lasted a single season but was one of the best shows I have ever seen.

    The shuddering breath of a fleeing figure turned to pale clouds in the thick darkness of the English countryside. Wide eyes, awash with terror, darted around wildly; they searched the shadows of the moor, moonlit skin clammy from dew and cold perspiration.

    A strangled cry escaped the hunted man as a rock appeared from the ankle-deep fog, sending him flying headfirst into the soggy soil. Quickly, he rolled over, rasping for air. A looming form overcame him; the hunter had caught up.

   “Please… Leave me alone...” The man tried to scurry away, his voice cracking, but he froze when a sleek pistol was slipped from his pursuer’s pocket.

    “Answer my question and you might live. I promise I won't ask again...” A cold, slithering trill escaped his hunter, making the fallen man shudder. Icy prickles tickled his spine like little daggers. “Where is Henry Morgan?” Each word was clipped off with punctuated clarity,  the name hissed as if it were poison.

    “I--I don't know...” The man swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to the gun clasped in its gloved hand. “I don't know who---”

    A sharp gunshot ripped across the moor, becoming muffled by the heavy mist. A whistling sigh was released by the hunted man as his body grew rigid and then limp. It fell into the muddied grass with a slight thump, his glassy eyes staring listlessly at the gray sky.

    “I don't like liars.” His killer said in a chilling yet sickly sweet purr, gingerly hiding the still-warm pistol. The snake-like man glanced at the bloody bullet hole in his victim's chest and bent, carefully dipping his index finger into the pooled blood. A thin, ruthless smile curled his lipless mouth as he painted two letters onto the dead man’s cheeks: H.M.

    Wiping his stained appendages across the wet ground to clean them, he straightened and readjusted his coat before turning on his heel and taking swift strides away from the murdered man. The dense fog swallowed him, making him seem like no more than a ghost.


	2. Getting Acquainted With the Crew {Henry's P.O.V.}

     The new medical examiner strode into the harshly-lit interior of St. Bart’s morgue. He blinked a few times, waiting for his eyes to adjust from the dim corridor, and looked across the many cold slabs.

    His gaze rested on a young woman with her brown hair up in a ponytail. She was bent over a yellowed corpse, scribbling notes onto a clipboard.

    For a brief moment, he was back at the morgue in New York, and the young woman was Jo Martinez. A faint throb of pain struck a chord in his heart, but it wasn't anything he wasn't used to. The memory faded, and he hesitantly cleared his throat.

    The woman looked up, startled, before noticing him standing there awkwardly. She regained her composure, a small but warm smile curving her mouth upwards. “Oh, hello. You must be Doctor...” She trailed off, looking a bit flustered.

    “Doctor Morgan.” Henry returned the smile.

    “It is a pleasure to work alongside you, Dr. Morgan.”

    “Henry, please, if we are to be acquaintances.”

    “Henry it is.” She bounced on her heels before extending her hand. “Molly Hooper, pathologist.”

    Henry took her hand, giving it a firm shake. Her skin was smooth; her fingertips were slightly chilled by the cool air of the morgue. “I look forward to working with you, as well, Molly.”

    He shifted his gaze to the corpse laid on the slab. “Who is this?”

    Molly followed his gaze. “Yet to be identified. Caucasian male. Mid-thirties. Killed by a single bullet to the chest.”

    Henry looked up and studied her. “Murder, then.” He hadn't meant to sound so hopeful, but after months of dull sadness, he was craving the adrenaline rush provided by solving murder cases.

    To his surprise, a faint smile curled Molly’s lips. “You sound like Sherlock...” A pale blush crept up her cheeks. She had a crush on whoever Sherlock might be, Henry noted.

    “Who is Sherlock?” He asked the words slowly, turning his attention back to the body.

    “He’s---” Molly was cut off as heavy footsteps sounded outside the morgue, and the door was heftily opened. A tall, lanky, and incredibly pale man strode in, looking thoroughly annoyed. His dark curly hair coiled around his face, the sharp light illuminating his equally sharp cheekbones. “---him...” She finished meekly.

    Sherlock didn't even notice Henry at first. He approached Molly, the black cloth of his Belstaff coat swirling around his legs. “What is it this time? Lestrade promised it was interesting, though as of recently, I have begun to doubt his---” He paused mid-scowl, fixating on Henry.

    Henry was caught meeting the gaze he saw every morning in the mirror; eyes with unimaginable depth, knowledge and pain stared back at him in a startling collection of blue, hazel, and green. Could this Sherlock figure be---No. Adam would have mentioned him.

    “Who is he?” The scorn in Sherlock’s voice snapped him from his thoughts.

    “Erm, Sherlock, this is Doctor Morgan---Henry. He’s our new medical examiner.”

    As the strange man looked over him, he couldn't help but feel as if his life story was being taken and picked apart.

    Finally, Sherlock spoke. “Which war did you serve in, Doctor Morgan?”

    A chill coursed through Henry's veins. It wasn't like he could tell the truth. Saying he had served in WWII would get him locked into a mental hospital, and he had no desire to go through that again. How had the man known--? He had to think fast.

    “Afghanistan.” He replied smoothly.

    “Hm.” Sherlock clearly didn't believe him. “Just like John. Perhaps you knew him.”

    The tension thickened in the air. “No… I don't believe I knew a John in the war...”

    To his relief, Molly recaptured Sherlock’s attention as she repeated the details of the unnamed man. “Dr. Morgan has proposed it was a murder.”

    Sherlock’s gaze flicked to Henry before he studied the dead man. “Well, obviously, Molly. At least there is someone with an ounce of intelligence.”

    Henry wasn't usually one to have a quick temper, but something in the tall man’s tone grated at his nerves. And Molly didn't deserve to be spoken to like that. Tucking his hands behind his back, he uttered quietly but firmly, “Tell me, Mr. Holmes, does anyone else know that you have started using recreational drugs… again?”

    Now it was Sherlock’s turn to look surprised. He could feel Molly’s eyes flickering between the two of them, but he kept his dark eyes fixed on Sherlock. “Nicotine, heroine… The list goes on… Shall I continue?”

    “No… No, that is quite unnecessary, Doctor.” Sherlock returned coldly, his walls resuming and thickening.

    “You are a consulting detective, correct? Only one in the world? I do hope I remember what your blog said.” Henry changed the subject abruptly, in his mind adding, _I suppose I should be grateful to Lucas for making me read the confounded thing._

 “Correct, _Docto_ r…” Sherlock remained terse.

    “Good. Could I help Scotland Yard and you on your cases? I'm sure the NYPD could put in a good word for me.” Henry inwardly winced at the bluntness, but he was practically dying to be back out on the field.

    “Of course, Doctor Morgan, I was just about to suggest the same thing.” Sherlock was brittle and venomous, but he seemed serious, nonetheless.

    Despite the rigid air, Henry forced a thin smile at the man. “Excellent. I shall accompany you there, presuming that is where you are heading next.”

    The only thing he got from the man was a low huff as he turned and took long strides from the morgue.

    “I’m terribly sorry, Henry. He’s not really a people person… And I think he feels threatened by people who are as good at mind games as he is.” Molly’s sweet voice piped in softly.

    Henry offered her a kinder smile. “I know, Molly. I’ve worked with worse, believe it or not. I should be going, though. I have a hunch that he shall leave without me should I not turn up soon.” He dipped his head and murmured a gentle goodbye before trailing after the standoffish detective.

 

●○●○●○●○●○●

 

    Sherlock was waiting impatiently in a cab when Henry exited St. Barts. The detective’s fingers drummed on the window frame, his expression otherwise indifferent.

    Henry eyed the cab before slowly climbing in, sitting as far away from Sherlock as possible but not too close to the window.

    He could almost feel the cold water of the river, his breath hitching slightly; his fingers ached where they had torn jagged scrapes into the taxi windows. He gave an involuntary shiver.

    “Have an aversion to cabs, do you, Doctor?” Sherlock’s dry musing broke the silence.

    “Do you really do drugs just because life gets boring, or is it that you cannot handle it sometimes?” Henry countered, determined not to let Sherlock gain the upper hand.

    Sherlock’s nostrils flared, and the rest of the ride was filled by an uncomfortable silence.

    The cab driver took them to the outskirts of London where there were a few farmlands scattered around. The vehicle hummed to a halt beside an old cobblestone farmhouse.

    Sherlock was the first one out, swiftly heading for a group of police officers gathered in the yard. It was obvious the detective intended for Henry to pay.

    Henry heaved a soft sigh and exited as well, paying the driver generously and sending him off with a kind word.

    Tucking his hands into his coat pockets, he trudged after the surly man. He found Sherlock standing next to as short, golden-haired man, his lips still pressed in a thin line.

    The blond was watching him.

    “I take it that you are John Watson.” Henry said, unsure of how the man’s attitude compared to Sherlock’s.

    “That's right. And you're the only man that I’ve ever seen capable of getting Sherlock to shut up.” John smirked at his companion, shaking Henry's hand. His hand was warm and calloused, used to using weaponry as well as small instruments. The man had been an army doctor.

    Henry allowed a small laugh. “Henry Morgan. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

    “It's excellent, mate. It won't last long, though. He’ll be off again once he gets to the crime scene.”

    “Would you look at that? Who managed to ruffle Freak’s feathers?” A new voice met Henry's ears. He turned and saw a man with graying hair flanked by a dark-haired woman and a stout, bearded fellow approaching. The woman had uttered the spiteful words.

    Sherlock stiffened but said nothing still. Henry somewhat regretted saying what he had in the cab. The detective needed to know his place, but life was far from easy and friendly for him.

    “Hullo, Greg.” John spoke to the gray-haired man.

    “John, Sherlock.” Lestrade returned, though he was eyeing Henry. “Crime scenes are just becoming a party now, eh?”

    “Dr. Morgan is the new medical examiner at St. Barts and requested to see the crime scene. ” Henry was slightly startled as Sherlock muttered.

    Lestrade rolled his eyes. “And you said yes?”

    “I believe he could prove useful to solving the case. He has… similar qualities as I do.” The consulting detective said slowly, licking his lips.

    Lestrade looked at Henry with newfound respect before nodding curtly. “Alright.” He began to walk to a gate leading to the moors. “Your murder happened this way, boys.”


	3. Too Soon are Secrets Revealed {Sherlock's P.O.V.}

     Sherlock hastily trailed after Lestrade, all too happy to leave the irritant and enigmatic medical examiner behind. He was beginning to doubt his reasoning for allowing him to come along in the first place. The doctor was insufferable and always had to get the last word. It was worse that he was a complete puzzle to Sherlock. There was a thinly laid coat covering the man, one the detective could easily pick apart, but beneath that, there was nothing to decipher---no more than irrelevant bits and pieces.

    He quickened his pace as the small troop crossed the windswept, muddy moor and did his best to quell the unanswerable questions plaguing his mind.

     _Focus on the case at hand. Hardly the most difficult to solve._ He told himself. His gaze slipped with disinterest from person to person before landing on John’s blond locks.

    Before more thoughts could disrupt him, he shifted his eyes once more, studying the approaching crime scene.

    The stiff grass was flattened at random intervals, and patches of mud held mute traces of bootprints. A struggle had happened between the killer and the victim, he deduced.

    He opened his mouth to tell Lestrade of his discovery but instead found Dr. Morgan’s drowning out his.

    “The victim was fleeing his murderer,” The man was half-crouched beside a crumpled bunch of grass, peering through it to where the body had lain. “But here, he was tripped up by this rock and fell.” He nudged the mud-streaked rock lightly with the tip of his shoe and eyed the mess of turned mud and vegetation.

    Sherlock watched in silent contempt before giving a cold reply. “How observant of you, Doctor. Our victim also suffered from a slight limp in his left leg, judging by the depths of the bootprints. The  murderer, on the other hand, appeared to have been in perfect health. Likely just under two metres tall.”

    The doctor gave no acknowledgement to Sherlock’s coldness, instead kneeling and picking a few scrap pieces of cloth from a wayward seed stalk. He stood once more and help it up to the poorly lit sky, turning the dark threads in his gloved hands.

    “I cannot tell anything from this. Perhaps you can.” His expression unchanged, Dr. Morgan handed the few bits of cloth to Sherlock before tramping off to another part of the scene.

    His attention drawn to the pitiful bit of evidence, he failed to notice John’s quiet approach.

    “Are you alright, Sherlock?”

    Sherlock started slowly at the warm sound of his voice. He gave a curt, slightly awkward nod and pocketed the threads, facing his friend. “Fine.”

    The shorter man gave a soft snort of disbelief. “Jealousy doesn't suit you.” He chuckled and lightly grabbed the absent detective’s sleeve, pulling him after the entourage of police officers.

    Sherlock pouted briefly and tugged himself free of John’s firm grasp. “He’s only here because of his skill. Without it, he is no better than Anderson.” He grumbled roughly, sharply watching the mysterious doctor pace around in a similar pattern of his own. It was almost like an intricate dance of examination.

    With a shake of his head, he cleared the nonsensical thoughts and wandered around, his skillful eyes taking in each detail that was relevant to the crime: the slight spatter of blood on an overturned leaf, a crumpled blade of grass, the hastily-shoved-aside patch of brambles where strip of clothing waved mournfully in the faint breeze…

    He stopped abruptly, nearly running into Dr. Morgan. The man had come to a full halt in front of him, his dark eyes locked onto the patch of trees a few metres away.

    A growl of annoyance played in Sherlock’s throat, but the doctor was unresponsive, color washing from his face.

    Following his gaze, the detective caught sight of black coattails disappearing into the undergrowth, dull patches of pale skin visible beneath the shadowy linen.

    Without warning, Dr. Morgan took off after the figure, ignoring all of the confused cries that arose from those around them. Not hesitating for long, Sherlock followed, not caring whether the police followed or not. John would be right behind him for sure.

    The medical examiner had all but disappeared into the thick darkness of the woods, but Sherlock was able to track the trail of both the doctor and the fleeing figure.

    He leapt gracefully over a fallen log, a small grin crossing his face for the first time that day at the simple thrill of the chase. For a brief moment, he caught sight of Dr. Morgan weaving his way after the black-garbed fellow.

    Footfalls quickening, Sherlock spared a short glance around; the scenery was changing from dense thickets and trees to the sparsely-vegetated, sprawling moor once more. His eyes locked back onto those he was pursuing, attempting to discover what the appearance of the runner was.

    Without reason, the fleeing figure stopped, whirling around. A gun, an old Colt Python, Sherlock was able to glean, was clutched steadily in the man’s hand. His head was tilted at such an angle to where his face was obscured in shadows cast by the black cabbie cap he wore. The skin of his hands were almost unimaginably pale, not far off from the paleness of Sherlock. His figure was tall and thin but as powerful as a willow switch. He was a formidable and intelligent opponent, Sherlock conceded.

    However, the man’s attention was wholly given to Dr. Morgan, who was standing with clear distress written on his face.

    “Tsk, tsk, Henry. I have unfinished business with you, but not here... Too many people. Tell your friend to leave or I will dispose of him myself.” The man’s voice was slithering and chilling, cold and hissing. He lazily flicked the gun in Sherlock’s direction; there was a sharp bang and a bullet whizzed by the detective’s ears, off only by a few centimeters.

    Sherlock forced himself not to flinch, becoming more intrigued by the second. “Who are you?” He asked airily, ignoring the threat, though he was sure the man had no problem with carrying through with it.

    “Rude, isn’t he? More of a reason to rid the world of him.” The man mused, shifting the pistol barrel back in Dr. Morgan’s direction as he took a step forward. “I wouldn't do that if I were you. It would be a terrible thing if I had to shoot you, instead.”

    At his words, the doctor froze. Stiffly, he said, “Mr. Holmes, I insist that you leave us.... Please...” His eyes remained locked on the man before them.

    “You should listen to him, Mr. Holmes. Otherwise, it might get a bit bloody.”

    Sherlock was caught in indecision. Leave, and he would be safe but forever plagued with curiosity at what was going on. Stay, and he would surely be shot by this maniac.

    “What would drive you to murder another man?” The detective spoke slowly, his words clear and precise.

    The man gave a bone-chilling chuckle. “Smart, as well as an ass.” He purred, his lip curling slightly; it broke his otherwise stoic façade. “But tick tock, time is up. I have no quarrels with killing again.” His thin mouth curled into a wolfish grin. His finger curled around the trigger of the pistol with agonizing slowness.

     Sherlock involuntarily closed his eyes, waiting for another gunshot and the white hot stab of pain that followed the bullet as it plowed through his flesh, muscle, and bones.

    Then it happened. The deafening sound rang across the moor, echoed by the trees, and a cry of pain rang out, but it was not his own.

    He forced his eyes to part in time to see Dr. Morgan falling back. A small hole pierced the back of his coat just under the left shoulder, beginning to ooze dark crimson blood. The armed man was already briskly walking back into the shelter of the woods, knowing that the gunshots would bring the entire police force running. Sherlock was tempted to follow him, but a pained gurgle escaped the dying man on the ground at his feet.

    Dr. Morgan had jumped in front of the bullet intended for him with full knowledge that he would likely die.

    Sherlock crouched beside him and examined the entry wound that was flowing with blood. He gave a desperate glance at the treeline, hoping that John would appear soon with his doctoring skills and make it all better, but the shadows were silent.

    The detective gave a growl of frustration and undid his scarf, pressing it heavily against the bullet wound. The action was clearly in vain, but not even he was heartless enough to do nothing but watch the man die.

    As soon as Sherlock pressured the gushing injury, Dr. Morgan gave a sound of protest, scarlet liquid trickling from the side of his mouth. A rattling cough shook his frame like death throes.

    “G-go...” He managed to rasp finally, panting with the effort. “P---lease...” A tense sigh of pain broke his voice as another faint convulsion racked him. His brown eyes dulled and the last wisps of breath slipped from his lips as his chest fell still.

    Sherlock watched in a mild state of shock before slowly rising from the deceased man, his bloodied blue scarf still gripped tightly in his curled palm.

    To his even greater disbelief, Dr. Morgan’s body suddenly disappeared in a blinding flash. Sherlock was left alone on the moor, even the fabric of his scarf clear of all traces of blood. The detective blinked once and stared numbly at where the medical examiner had lain.

    He flinched and turned around sharply as John touched his shoulder; the shorter man was heaving for breath, as well as the rest of the police officers that had followed.

    “Woah, you alright, Sherlock?” John’s voice was laced with underlying concern, his eyes studying his face. Hesitantly, they shifted and searched the moors around them. “Was Henry with you?”

    “Who?” Sherlock questioned absently, forcing the words to roll clumsily off his tongue. He was half trapped in his Mind Palace, consumed by trying to figure out what had just happened.

    “Henry---Dr. Morgan. Was he with you?” John repeated the inquiry.

    The detective tilted his head before giving it a small shake. Best to lie until he could figure out what had played out.

    His friend pursed his lips and gave him another look of concern before taking his elbow and leading him back to the cobblestone house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can Adam become even more insane? I dunno, but he is going to be.
> 
> Thanks for the comments! You can't imagine how happy they make me!


	4. Of Old Blankets and Watery Lullabies {Henry's P.O.V.}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait and the shortness of this chapter! School is very busy at the moment, but with Christmas break approaching, more chapters should follow this one.

     Henry sputtered for air as he broke the surface of the sluggishly-moving Thames. The rancid stench in the air almost made him retch, but he forced the feeling of nausea away. Treading water in the middle of the River Thames was hardly an ideal place to be ill.

    Above his head, the roar of heavy traffic foretold of the bridge casting a chill-inducing shadow on him. Desperate to bring some warmth to his naked limbs, he began to swim for the shore.

    Unlike in New York, there was no Abe to call or nice undergrowth to hide in. Fate seemed to take pity on him, though; in the dark corners of the underside of the bridge, a ratty and crusty old blanket was stowed in the rocks, likely belonging to a homeless fellow.

    Henry grabbed the stained cloth and wrapped it around his waist in a shallow attempt to cover his soaked frame. Carefully peering from the hidden safety of the bridge, the man took in his surroundings.

    Across the river, the London Eye stood stark and prideful against the cloudy sky. On his side, Big Ben loomed like a tall and authoritative figure.

    Though the great city had changed much since he had last been there, Henry was able to place his location, and if he remembered correctly, Scotland Yard was not too unreasonably far from there.

    He reluctantly left the dark safety, however cold it was, and made his way to the busy streets above.

    People shot him bewildered and estranged looks as he passed them by, but he ignored them, his lips pressed in a firm line in a vain attempt to keep his teeth from chattering.

    By the time Scotland Yard was coming into view, Henry was certain that he had attained several cuts to his bare soles; each step was painful, and to make matters worse, the stifling clouds in the sky suddenly released a torrential rain down on his head.

    A couple of police officers approached him before he was able to enter the station. “Great...” One muttered to his companion. “Just what we need… A psycho...”

    The other officer snorted softly and looked at Henry. “Sir, give me one good reason why I shouldn't arrest you on the spot for public indecency.” She said in a haughty tone, her position tensed.

    Thoughts streamed through the doctor's mind as he formulated a suitable tale of his miserable endeavors. He ran his tongue over his lips before replying. “Officer, I--I think I was just nearly murdered.” He purposefully stumbled over his words, playing as a scared victim, not that it was incredibly difficult.

    The male officer arched a speculative eyebrow and exchanged a glance with his partner. “Can you describe your attacker, Sir?” He asked finally.

    “No...” Better to play dumb for the time being. Cold rain dripped from his curly, soggy hair and trickled down his spine, reminding him of his current state.

    “Fine.” The duo seemed to accept him as a poor helpless chap. “Let’s go inside and get you fixed up. Maybe some clothes and a cuppa will jog your memory.”

    Henry nodded his assent and allowed the officers to guide him into the station. About ten minutes later, and he was clothed in a pair of sweatpants and a well-worn gray tee with a faded TARDIS graphic.

    The other officers had left, leaving him with a man who introduced himself as Sergeant Fletcher. The man had a steely glare and an equally hard face. “Thompson and Richards told me that someone attempted to kill you. Care to explain?”

    Henry swallowed. “Please, Sir, if I could speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade…?”

    Fletcher frowned. “That’s the homicide department. I thought you were still alive.”

    “Yes, but I was working with them on a case… No doubt they will be wondering where I went.”

    The burly man gave a huffing sound, a light sparking in his eyes. “Hm. Might your name be Henry Morgan?”

    Henry exhaled slowly, sensing where the conversation was heading. “Yes, indeed.”

    “I suppose I should call them and tell them to end the search, then.” Fletcher mused in a bored tone before calling to someone.

    “Yes, Sir?” A woman came at the call, halfway through the doorway. Her gaze flicked to the poorly-dressed doctor for a moment.

    “Call Lestrade and tell him that we have Morgan at the station.” Fletcher leaned back in his chair before adding, “Alive.”


	5. Whatever Remains, However Improbable, Must Be the Truth {Sherlock's P.O.V.}

    Sherlock paced the flat, his fingers entwined and clasped tightly behind his back. His mind was working on overdrive, trying in any possible way to explain what had happened in that barren field. However, none of his spacious and grand knowledge could piece together a logical answer.

    Normal men certainly did _not_ disappear when shot through the chest. Granted, there had been more to Doctor Morgan than had met the eye, but the incident was practically _witchcraft_.

    Giving a heavy exhale, the detective threw himself down into his chair, slinging his legs over one armrest and leaning his head back on the other. He steepled his fingers under his chin, staring with a burning passion at the ceiling.

    The sudden outburst of movement caused John to look up from his laptop where he was blogging their most recent endeavours. “What is perplexing your brilliant mind this time?” He questioned in a humoured tone.

    Sherlock was silent for a moment before responding in a flat tone. “The… Disappearance of Doctor Morgan…”

    A low chuckle could be heard from his flatmate. “That sounds like the name of a case.”

    Sherlock didn’t respond, his gaze absently tracing a faint crack in the plaster of the ceiling. He recalled the questions that had ensued after the return to the farmhouse.

 

●○●○●○●○●○●

 

     _He had shaken John’s clutch off of his sleeve, trailing along beside the shorter man. He hardly remembered walking back to the house at which they had begun, but the bleak grey cobblestone was soon to his direct left. “Sherlock.” Lestrade’s stern voice pulled him from his blank meanderings. “Where is Doctor Morgan?”_

_“Gone.” He replied slowly, lifting his gaze to meet the Detective Inspector’s. He wet his lips before finishing his statement. “Doctor Morgan was gone when I got to the field.” He lied smoothly, unconvinced that was he had saw was completely true._

_“And what of the man you two were chasing?”_

_“Gone as well. I… Had only left the treeline when the gun was fired.”_

_Lestrade’s brow furrowed as he shifted his attention. He turned to Donovan who stood behind him with crossed arms. “Donovan, tell the station that we need a search for a…” He looked back inquiringly at Sherlock and John._

_“Henry Morgan.” John supplied._

_Lestrade nodded. “Tell them to be wary.” The Sergeant gave the duo a perturbed glare and walked away._

_“So, do you have a theory?” The Detective Inspector’s attention was back on Sherlock._

_“Ideas.” He hummed and began to walk away without warning. “Come along, John. We’re going back to 221B.”_

_John spoke a quick goodbye before hurrying after the troubled man. “What really happened out there, Sherlock?”_

_Ah, so John was smart enough to see through his lies. The thought was both assuring and displeasing._

_“Nothing that concerns you, John.” He spoke curtly, leaving no room for argument. “Do you have a cab waiting?” The question went unanswered. Of course John had requested his driver stay. Sherlock had specifically told him to do so upon contacting him on news of the case._

 

●○●○●○●○●○●

 

    He was shaken from the memory as the silence of the room was split by a faint chime emanating from his phone. He deemed to ignore it until John sighed, rose, collected the device, and placed it in his outstretched hand.

    It was a text from Lestrade. The contents make him quirk an eyebrow in silent shock.

 

   **We found Dr. Morgan. Sort of. Come to the Yard.**

 

    He read the words multiple times before responding.

 

   **On my way. - SH**

 

    He unfolded himself from his chair and got up with sudden vigor. Maybe some of the pressing questions could be answered by an apparently-not-so-dead Medical Examiner.

    “What is it?” John watched him curiously.

    “They have found Doctor Morgan. Lestrade requests my presence.” Sherlock answered, pulling on his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck.

    “Should I…?” John began, but Sherlock cut him off.

    “Stay here,” was all the taller man said before exiting the flat. Rain was pounding down around him, and the street was all but abandoned. The lengthening shadows were only broken by the watery light streaming from Speedy’s.

    Muttering under his breath, Sherlock flipped up his collar before hailing a cab.

    Before long, the driver announced their arrival at Scotland Yard. After paying the man, he headed straight for Lestrade’s office, ignoring any greetings or strange looks the officers cast him.

    Lestrade stood as he entered the room, as did a shabbily-dressed Doctor Morgan. Sherlock stared at the man in utter bewilderment, but the doctor refused to meet his gaze.

    “Where did you find him?” The consulting detective asked eventually.

    “Well, we didn’t exactly find him,” Sherlock arched a brow. “--He walked to the station, wrapped in a blanket and dripping the Thames.”

     _So that explained the clothing,_ Sherlock concluded, remaining silent as the Detective Inspector continued. “He said someone attempted to murder him."

    Sherlock glanced back to Doctor Morgan, who had remained quiet during the entire conversation. “---And he remembers nothing.” It was a statement, not a question. Lestrade nodded.

    “Might I have a word with Doctor Morgan, alone? I do believe his attacker is connected to our latest victim.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the shortness. I'll try to make them longer. Thanks so much for all the kudos and comments.


	6. Caught Up in a Nightmare {Henry's P.O.V.}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHA. How's this for length? I also could not help myself from some awkward Henry/Molly fluff because yes, I ship them now. Hard.

     Henry watched the Detective Inspector leave the room and close the door behind him before he switched his gaze to Sherlock’s. “I expect you have many questions for me.”

    Sherlock stayed standing. “Indeed.” He responded in a low tone. Henry watched as his jaw tensed and his shoulders shifted. “What are you?” The man forced out finally; his breath hissed slightly, and his eyes narrowed.

    Henry licked his lips and rubbed his hands together, lowering his eyes. He sucked in a sigh and ran through the many reactions the detective could have to his answer. “I am immortal, Mr. Holmes.” He managed in a steady voice.

    Sherlock was silent, drinking in the words that held the impossible truth. He swallowed multiple times, his jaw working more furiously. “...How...?”

    “That is something even I have yet to discover…” Henry gave a short laugh, but it held no humor. His thumb trailed over his clenched knuckles, offering little comfort and assistance to untangling the knot that worked at his stomach. “As of this year, I have lived for 236 years.” He shook his head slowly.

    “And why should I believe you?”

    The doctor looked up at the impassive man questioning him. “You saw me die out in that field. What more proof do you need?” His voice raised in volume unintentionally, his raw nerves tingling.

    Sherlock closed his eyes and began pacing the confined space. His hand ran through his dark curls and tugged at them sharply. “But _how?_ It’s not scientifically possible!”

    Henry watched as the man exhaled heavily, regaining control of the situation. He faced Henry once more, though his eyes remained closed.

    Without warning, the consulting detective began to fire off deductions rapidly. “You have recently been in the States for an extended period of time, as you have subconsciously altered your accent to be more like theirs; you also mentioned the NYPD during our first meeting. Although, you originally come from Wales, a wealthy family no less. Sons of nobles do not become doctors, however, suggesting you did not wish to follow your father’s line of work. Given your birth date, I’d say slave trading.

    “You served in the military as a doctor, but _not_ in Afghanistan; I am not an idiot, Doctor. You have lost an object of great value to you recently; your hands keep straying to your pockets, though you don’t appear to realise.”

    Henry’s heartbeat quickened at Sherlock’s last statement, and his hand did indeed touch the fabric of his pocket. His eyes lost focus, his mind reeling back to his last death. His watch. His watch never came with him when he died. He always recovered it in the end as well. He swallowed thickly, his gaze flickering across the floor in frantic silence. Sherlock’s voice was still going on in the background, though it was muffled. “... My watch…” He muttered in a husky tone.

    The detective’s voice fell silent. “What?” He said after a moment.

    Henry closed his eyes. “My watch… My pocket watch is missing. When I… Die, it stays behind.” His fingers curled, nails biting his palm as realisation struck him. “It must still be on the moor. Unless…” Another thought filled his veins with solid, cold dread.

    “That man has likely taken it.” Sherlock supplied the words that Henry couldn’t voice.

    The immortal nodded. “He calls himself Adam.”

    “Is he… An immortal, as well?”

    “Yes, unfortunately. The man has a sickening fascination with me, somehow believing that I can remove this curse from him.”

    “You see immortality as a curse?” Sherlock’s statement caused Henry to look up once more.

    “Watching the times pass and change, having to move as so not to give yourself away, watching those you love live and die while you keep on living…” The last few words made the doctor’s throat ache with renewed rawness. “Yes, immortality is nothing but a curse.”

    The detective only replied with a faint hum. Henry watched as he absently picked something from the Detective Inspector’s desk and began to fiddle with it.

    “Do you have any more questions?”

    The question made Sherlock refocus on the immortal. “Mm, not at the moment.”

    “What will you tell Lestrade? He expects you to solve the murder case, no doubt.”

    “I will think of something.” With that, Sherlock pocketed whatever he was messing with and exited the stifling office. Henry glanced at the window, watching the lazy raindrops roll down the glass, before rising from his seat and exiting the room as well.

 

●○●○●○●○●○●

 

 

    By the time Henry arrived at his flat, exhaustion was dragging him down. So much had happened in a day, from the murder, to Adam’s reappearance, to his own death.

    He was barely able to fumble his keys into his locked door (there was an extra key under the doormat, thankfully), much less change into his own clothing. His feet numbly carried him to his room and his mind was unconscious as soon as he had thrown himself onto his bed.

    His dreams were, however, anything but restful.

    

●○●○●○●○●○●

 

    _Mud splashed up onto Henry’s slacks as he ran after Jo, but he could care less for the stains. The running murderer was more important at the moment. The man had killed his own daughters, driven to insanity by his wife’s unfortunate death. The mangled bodies of the three little girls, their faces nearly unrecognisable from bruises and blood, were seared into his mind, only spurring him forwards._

_The man was highly unstable and very dangerous. They had cornered him in a closed building on the edge of the park, but he had quickly incapacitated an officer and stolen his gun._

_Now, Jo and he were pursuing the murderer through a dimly lit park in the middle of a heavy storm. Henry couldn’t imagine it could go much worse._

_His fingers curled around the cold surface of the gun Jo had thrust into his unwilling hands before they had taken off. He only prayed he didn’t have to use it._

_“Henry, go left and try to flank him.” Jo had fallen back some and hissed the words into his ear while trying to catch her breath._

_Not wasting time on words, he nodded and veered leftwards, dodging the soaked tree branches and dripping bushes as best he could._

_For a moment, he caught sight of the fleeing man, who was back on the muddy path again. Thankfully, no one else was inhabiting the park at 8 o’clock at night in the pouring rain._

_His eyes flicked to a muddy slick stretching across the pathway. A thought played through his mind. It could work, but the probability of it actually succeeding was low, and he would be purely relying on luck and human nature._

_**Worth a try,** He thought and raised his gun, firing a bullet into the air. The sudden noise and flash of light caused the murderer to whip around. Henry allowed himself a small grin as the man released a startled yelp when his feet slipped through the mud, and gravity sent him crashing to the ground._

_The man started to scramble upright, but he quickly froze as Henry stepped from the undergrowth, the nozzle of the gun pointed at his chest. “Stay put and drop the gun.” He said in a low voice._

_The murderer’s trembling fingers curled around the handle of the stolen weapon, his shuddering breath fogging the air around his face._

_“P-please… I never wanted to hurt anyone…” The man’s voice shook as he spoke, but the weapon remained in his grasp._

_“Put the gun down.” Henry repeated, taking a small step forward, causing the man to shrink back some._

_The next few second happened in a mind-numbing blur. The bushes on the side of the path rustled, making both the murderer and him look up. Henry was able to make out Jo’s rain-streaked face before the man, as unstable and edgy as he was, snapped his gun up and fired a bullet at her._

_Time seemed to slow, though his heartbeat quickened. “Jo!” The detective’s name ripped painfully from his throat; Henry watched helplessly as his fingers pulled down on the trigger of his own gun, sending a bullet spiralling into the murderer’s shoulder._

_Then his mind snapped back to the agonizing reality. He was deaf to the injured man’s cries as he knelt beside the fallen detective. His eyes scanned the dark blood coating Jo’s clothing._

_His doctoring instincts kicked in finally, and he unwound his scarf and pressed it against the wound._

_“Henry…” He looked up at his name, his eyes finding Jo’s face. “Henry,” She repeated through shallow breaths._

_“Stop talking.” He meant the words to be said in a commanding tone, but it sounded more like a plea. Tears stung his eyes, threatening to mingle with the rain tracking down his face._

_A tired smile graced the detective’s dirtied face. “Both you and I know I’m not coming back from this one… I’m not a doctor, but I know where to make a fatal hit with a bullet...”_

_“Stop…” Henry pleaded once more, his hand finding her cold one._

_Jo’s lips twitched and she gave it a weak squeeze. “I’m sorry, Henry.”_

_Like a scene in one of those sappy movies Abe forced him to watch, Jo’s eyes slid shut and her chest stopped rising. Despite himself, Henry’s shaking fingers found her throat and desperately searched for a pulse that wasn’t there._

_He sat back, staring at Jo’s still form in silent shock, unable to find the will to move._

 

●○●○●○●○●○●

 

    A soft hand touching his side woke him with a start, sending him jerking upright. He registered little things at a time. The morning sunlight filtering through his curtains, the cold sweat clinging to every fibre of his being.

    His gaze finally flicked to the one who had woken him, and he was surprised to see Molly Hooper standing awkwardly beside his bed. She wore an over-sized coat that nearly swallowed her, and she looked thoroughly flustered, her cheeks a glowing red. Her eyes flickered from him to the floor.

    Slowly, Henry sat up completely, swinging his feet onto the cold floor. He was still half absorbed in his nightmare, and the fact that his colleague was in his flat didn’t help to clear his sleep-addled mind.

    Molly cleared her throat softly before asking, “Are you alright...?”

    “Why are you in my room?” Henry asked in reply, attempting to keep his tone soft and not accusing.

    “Right…” Molly shifted uncomfortably. “Sherlock asked me to come over and give you something, and you weren’t answering your door, and I found it unlocked. I thought something might have been wrong or someone had broken in. I found you sleeping, and I was going to leave, but it sounded like you were having a nightmare, so…” She trailed off, looking away, her cheeks deepening in color.

    Henry gave a low sigh. “It’s fine.” He murmured and rose from his bed, running a still-trembling hand through his hair.

    As trepid as Molly might be, she noticed his uneasy demeanor quickly. “Um, are you alright?” She repeated her question from earlier.

    He nodded. “I will be.” He noted the distinct chill in the air and turned to Molly. “While you are here, would you like something? Tea? Coffee? Breakfast?”

    “I’ve already had breakfast, but a cup of tea would be nice.” She accepted the offer with a small smile and followed Henry as he walked to his kitchen.

    He set the kettle to boil and motioned for Molly to have a seat at the little table. “May I take your coat?” He inquired politely, his Old English upbringing surfacing.

    Molly looked slightly surprised by the question. “Oh, alright, I suppose.” She shrugged the heavy material off and placed it in Henry’s hand. He took it and hung it on the bare rack that hung by the door.

    The kettle began to hiss, and Henry took it off the eye, pouring the steaming water into a pair of mugs and placing a teabag in each. “Any cream or sugar?” He asked.

    “No--No thank you. Just plain is fine.” Molly accepted the offered mug with cold hands, her gaze shifting to Henry as he sat down across from her.

    As he waited for his tea to cool some, he went over the conversation they had, making a curious thought cross his mind. “How did you know where I lived?”

    “Sherlock told me.”

    His brow furrowed. He didn’t recall ever telling the arrogant detective his address. “How---Never mind.” He shook his head; that man could likely discover his location just by looking at him. “What was it you had to give me?”

    “Oh, right.” Molly set her mug down and dug through her pockets. She stilled for a moment before getting up and retrieving an object from her coat pockets. “This. Sherlock told me this was yours.” She dropped the object into his extended palm and sat back down, smoothing the wrinkles in her pants absently.

    Henry looked at the object she had given him; it was his pocket watch, no doubt. The engravings were all the same, as unscratched as ever. “Did he say where he found it?” He didn’t look up, perplexed by the small mystery presented to him.

    “No, sorry…”

    More mysteries. He sighed and closed his fingers around the smooth metal. “I do believe we have work today, and I should probably get ready for it.” He got up. “You are welcome to stay here and finish the tea, unless you need to be going somewhere else.”

    Molly stood up as well after taking a last sip of her drink. “Actually, I needed to pick up some stuff for Toby. He’s my cat.”

    Henry nodded and mustered a smile. “I will see you at the morgue then.”

    Molly returned the smile. “At the morgue.” She agreed. Henry watched as she slid her over-sized coat back on and left his flat, closing the door behind her.

    It was several moments before he was spurred into action, looking down at the lonely pair of mugs on the table. He pulled in a slow breath and steeled himself for the problems and trivialities of the day.


	7. My Sleeves Are Stained Red {Sherlock's P.O.V.}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is another devious force working with the immortal Adam, and they manage to lure Sherlock away from the safety of his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long hiatus. School has been making everything impossible, and I am rarely blessed with a break. Enjoy the chapter, though.

     As soon as Sherlock found the pocket watch on the stoop of 221B, he knew it was Doctor Morgan’s. It was clearly an antique. The clock’s glass face was devoid of scratches, and the golden sheen told of a quality that had long passed in the pocket watch business.

    He had contemplated in silence for a while, pacing the floor space of the flat with his eyes fixed upon the mysterious object. He could either return the watch to the doctor or keep it to study.

     _John would be a good person and return it._ He thought humourously. Keeping it around the flat would also raise unwanted questions from his flatmate.

    His good conscious finally got the better of him and he decided to give it to Molly when he went to the morgue. No doubt she would be more than happy to do a favour for him, not to mention her growing infatuation for Doctor Morgan.

    “John!--” His voice died as he remembered that John had gone to Tesco to pick up some more milk, as Sherlock had practically curdled the last of theirs. He smirked faintly and grabbed his coat and scarf, heading for the door.

 

●○●○●○●○●○●

 

    Getting Molly to deliver the watch had gone seamlessly, having caught her right outside of Bart’s. Now he stood beside the icy form of their victim, who had recently been identified as a Logan Howard. His keen eyes flickered between Molly’s report and the stoic corpse.

    The man had lived four miles from where he had been discovered, residing alone in an out-of-the-way house along the moors. He was 35, slightly overweight, and had been suffering from diabetic nerve pain brought on by diabetes, likely the cause of his limp. Along with being a widower and a father of two, Sherlock could derive no reason for the man to have been murdered.

    Also, he had owned a flat in the heart of London and frequently rented it out; Sherlock made a mental note to check up on that later.

    A small frown crossing his lips, the detective set Molly’s report on a nearby table and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, retreating into his mind palace. However, before he could get very deep, his phone chimed with a text alert. He considered ignoring it but quickly reconsidered; it was probably John inquiring where he was. Just a few months ago, he would have cared nothing of it, but he had promised himself that he would be kinder to John after the doctor had left Mary. Keeping his vow, he had mused when the thought of making the promise had occurred to him.

    With a small huff, he slipped the device from his pocket and peered at the text.

 

**Deary me, Mr. Holmes. Can’t keep a hold on your pet can you? Tsk tsk.**

 

    A small dose of panic coursed through Sherlock’s veins. The text was from John’s phone, but it was clearly not he who had done the texting. Slowly, he responded.

 

     **Who is this and what do you want? - SH**

 

    The moments until the nameless enemy replied were agonizing.

 

      **Testy, Mr. Holmes.**   **I would say a friend, but you don’t have any. Except John, but that won’t be true for much longer. Come immediately, or your little pet will be just another bad memory.**

 

**Where? - SH**

 

**Redbeard will tell you.**

 

    Sherlock reread the conversation a few times, his thoughts whirling in disjointed chaos. “Redbeard…” He muttered in a hushed tone; the clues clicked into place like puzzle pieces, and suddenly he was off, bursting through the morgue doors with such ferocity that he startled a passing woman into dropping her cup of coffee. The woman shouted after him in anger, but he was already gone, his mind buzzing like he was high. He was in a cab before he could even register the fact.

    “Where to?” The cabby asked for the second time, an annoyed look growing on his face.

    Sherlock inhaled before answering, “Brompton Cemetery.”

 

●○●○●○●○●○●

 

    A cold wind bit at his pale skin as he stood on the pavement outside of the foreboding gates of Brompton Cemetery. To most, the intricate works of stone were beautiful and serene, but to the consulting detective, they spoke of one of the darkest parts of his past, one so strong that the memories in his mind palace were holed up in an impenetrable room with the key thrown away. And now the key had just been handed back to him.

    Sherlock squared his shoulders and wiped his face clean of emotions before entering the cemetery. Bleak, cold gray headstones greeted him, walled by dead grass and equally dead trees. Everything about the place screamed misery, and the horrendous weather ensured that there were no tourists in the grounds.

    His feet carried him down the pathway, shoving him forcefully towards the locked door in his mind. Faint barking mingled with familiar whispers, teasing him. Setting his mouth in a thin line, he straightened his collar to further block the chilling winds.

    His long strides slowed considerably as he neared an inconspicuous but resolute headstone. His eyes lingered on the words carved into the polished stone unbidden, tracing their familiarity with emotions he had long suppressed. _Sherrinford Holmes,_ it read, _A brilliant man who protected his country to the end._

    Sherrinford, the Holmes brother that, as far as the world cared, had never existed. Tearing his eyes from the stone, Sherlock walked in a slow circle; surely this was what his anonymous texter had meant.

    The detective’s patience was soon rewarded. A figure slipped from the nearby trees, followed by a pair of stockier fellows.

    “Where is John?” Sherlock spoke first, his baritone voice almost too crisp in the winter air.

    “You’re surprisingly easy to trick, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock was surprised to find that the voice was feminine, her accent clearly not British. Deductions ran through his head as soon as the woman’s face came into view. Even more surprising, and slightly shocking, was the lack of things he was able to deduce. His mouth turned dry; was the woman another immortal?

    Finally, he spoke. “Am I?” He asked in a somewhat bored tone.

    The woman smirked at him. “Indeed. Surprising how fire exposes our priorities, isn’t it? Just an inkling that dearest John might be in danger and his hero is here to save him. Whatever happened to ‘Caring is not an advantage’?”

    “How original of you.” The detective managed indifference over his swirling thoughts; he cursed at himself over how he had allowed himself to be so easily played. It came as no shock when the mysterious woman’s two lackeys gripped both of his arms tightly and pinned them behind his back, immobilizing him.

    The woman shrugged carelessly and removed her gloves. “It worked, didn’t it?” Smugness oozed from her tone as she removed a box from her coat pocket. Soon, a syringe was produced, clasped firmly in her fingers. “Not everyone needs to be a genius, Mr. Holmes. Not if they know your weakness.”

    She stopped right in front of him, her breath tickling his forehead. “Sleep well.”

    There was a stabbing pain as the needle pierced his skin right between his neck and collarbone, and the colours of the dreary world began to melt together into an inky blackness as drug-induced weariness pulled his eyelids closed. He was barely able to lock himself into a safe room in his mind palace before unconsciousness gripped him.

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter is a little confusing to some.
> 
> For those who don't know, Sherrinford is the hypothesized elder brother (and most intelligent) of the Holmeses. There is a headcannon that he was part of MI6 and died on a mission. It is my personal headcannon that Sherlock was a child when he died and that he was heavily affected by his death, thus receiving Redbeard as a coping device. In this story, Sherrinford would have also had a terminal disease (inspired by events in TAB) and would rather die in combat than in a hospital.
> 
> As for the mysterious woman, Matt Miller has announced that, had Forever continued, season 2 would have contained another immortal, much younger than Henry, and that she might have released Adam from his locked-in syndrome.
> 
> Brompton Cemetery is not just a random location. In ACD's stories, it was where Lord Blackwood was buried after being put to death.


End file.
